The wall clock in "The Corner Bite" diner had a crack that divided the number seven in two, and its second hand stuttered rather than swept, a jerky little reminder of passing time. At 1:47 AM, each of those stutters was a hammer blow to Elena Carter's weary resolve. The air, thick with ghosts of a thousand fried breakfasts and late-night cups of coffee, clung to her skin, a heavy, comforting shroud.
She glided through the cramped space with the sheer economy of movement that comes from repetition ad infinitum. Her body was more familiar with this terrain than it was with sleep. She made her way down the thin line running between the counter and the series of red, cracked vinyl booths, her coffee pot extended like an offering of peace to the remnant of the city's night.
And another cup of coffee, Mr. Henderson?" she asked, a tired, soft murmur.
The old man, bent over his crossword, grunted in assent, not so much as lifting his gaze as she refilled his cup. Steam curled into the air, obscuring the deep furrows etched around his eyes. He was a presence, as much a part of the cracked linoleum and the buzzing fluorescent light overhead as they were. He was predictable. He was reliable. Elena clung to predictable.
Her toes thudded against her worn-out sneakers, a dull throbbing ache that had been the soundtrack of her life. She could sense an opening forming around the small toe on her left foot, a small, nagging vulnerability that reminded her of her budget. A new pair of shoes was a fifty-dollar problem. Her mother's heart medication was a three-hundred-dollar problem. Elena was an expert at the hard math of survival, always weighing one need against the other.
She walked back to the counter, wiping a clean spot on the Formica with a wet rag. Her face was a smudged, pale version of herself in the shiny chrome of the napkin dispenser. Stormy gray eyes fringed with exhaustion. Long, dark hair tied back in a soggy ponytail, with wayward strands stuck to her temples. She turned away. It was as if sometimes, looking at her own face was looking at a stranger who had used her face and left it behind.
"Hi there, pretty. Once you're finished admiring yourself, care to come back to do a repeat over here?"
Elena's back stiffened. That voice. Rick. He was in the back booth with a buddy, the two of them downing beers they'd been getting their money's worth out of for the last hour. He was a regular, a man who believed that his five-dollar tip gave him claim to her time and her smile.
She picked up two bottles from the cooler, her movements accurate and impersonal. It was a mask she wore, a built wall of professional indifference. She was a tight wire of tiredness and anger in there.
"Here you are," she said, placing the beers on the table. She did not get too close.
Rick leaned in, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper that was still loud enough to cut through the quiet diner. "Tough night? You could use a straight drink. With me. After work."
I'm fine, thank you," she said, her tone courteous but firm. The phrases were automatic, polished to a thousand similar encounters. "May I have anything else?
Just the check, then, he growled, his smile not quite making it to his eyes. "Don't work too hard, sweet thing.".
The condescending name irritated her. She took out the check and placed it on the table, her fingers brushing against the folded receipt book. For an instant, an image appeared in her mind—a black woods, the damp scent of earth, the thrilling feeling of powerful muscles carrying her effortlessly through the woods. It was a snippet from one of the dreams she'd been having lately, so vivid it lingered in her consciousness.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. The dreams were coming more often, more vivid. She woke with a racing heart, the otherworldly sensation of wind in her fur and the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. Stress, she told herself. Stress from her life seeping into her head.
In the back, the last of the customers paid and left, leaving just the gentle hum of the refrigerators and the distant groan of the city. Sal, the chef, was already cleaning the grill, the staccato scrape of his metal spatula a reassuring final note.
Told you you were getting into trouble again from Rick," Sal growled, not glancing around. "You want me to speak up for you next time?
"It's okay, Sal. I can handle it." She was thankful to the balding, thick-set man for the offer, but notice was the one thing she did not need. Her entire existence was based on the concept of not being noticed, of becoming wallpaper until she was invisible. It was safer that way.
As she cashed out her register, she counted her tips against the counter's dim light. Eighteen dollars and fifty-two cents. She let out a soft sigh, the exhalation almost a murmur in the empty diner. She palmed the crumpled bills, the meager take for a ten-hour shift.
As she slipped on her flimsy jacket, an odd prickle crept down the nape of her neck. A smell pierced the greasy air—not coffee, not bleach, but something wild and pure. It was the smell of rain on parched earth, of pine needles after a storm. It was the smell of her dreams.
She remained there, resting against the door of the diner, gazing out over the empty street. There was nothing but vehicles parked along the street, glinting in the orange glow of the streetlights, and a piece of newspaper blowing on the sidewalk. The odor was as quick to depart as it had come. You're just exhausted, she reproached herself, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the door handle. So exhausted your brain is playing tricks on you. She shoved the idea aside, together with the creepy recollection of the dream. Time to head home. Time for the long, twelve-block walk in a sleeping city, where the shadows were black and the past was a monster always in her rearview mirror. She breathed in deeply, steeled herself for the ache in her bones, and walked out into the night.